


Hearts Royal

by Slytherclaw (Geminia905)



Series: Shuffle Up and Deal [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), major spoilers for episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-07 18:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21462787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geminia905/pseuds/Slytherclaw
Summary: We've seen what can happen when a spell goes wrong.What happens when one goes a bit too right?
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: Shuffle Up and Deal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619284
Comments: 203
Kudos: 194





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, if you haven't watched Ep 4, leave now.
> 
> My brain would not shut up and let me sleep, so I've spent half my work shift writing this to shut it up.
> 
> I'm rusty as hell when it comes to writing, so this is extremely rough, for which 'I apologise.' ;)

_N_ _o. No. No. No._

Reverend Matthew Mason stared in horror at the tableau before him, his mind blank beyond one singular word, even as his lips automatically-traitorously-moved to utter Last Rites.

Clayton's body lay motionless on the ground, sardonic smile still on his lips, as Aloysius Fogg (_Judas_) reached down to close his eyes.

_Grey eyes meeting his across a street occupied by the living dead._

_Grey eyes twinkling with mischief during one of the group's rare lighthearted exchanges._

_Beautiful grey eyes lingering on his an extra moment or two, making his heart skip a beat as he allowed himself to hope his interest may be returned._

Fogg turned, walking calmly down the road and it took every ounce of willpower he had left to not empty both of his guns into the traitor's back.

_No. That wasn't fair. This has something to do with that spell he tried to cast - the one you goaded him into trying._

He followed the ladies over to where Clayton - Amos? - **_Clayton_** lay, empty words of forgiveness for the unforgivable falling from his lips.

Suddenly, words from another lifetime, a past left behind, ran through his mind.

_"Never approach a body less than five minutes from the time it hits the dirt, kid. I've seen more than one corpse whose brain hadn't yet cottoned onto the fact their heart was still."_

How long had it been: a minute, two? Certainly not five.

The Reverend reached down, as if preparing to carry the body away, looking quickly to each side for witnesses. The ladies were too busy comforting one another and what few spectators had been around, had moved on once the "show" was over.

As his hands came into contact with Clayton's body, he took a breath and cast the strongest healing spell he could summon, both fearing and expecting that nothing would happen.

_"Let's play a game."_

His breath caught on a sob as the familiar form of the Dealer appeared in his mind. 

There was a chance. Clayton was depending on him. This had to work.

_Lord, I know I'm a sinner and I know I'm selfish, but please help me save the life of this man. _

_This selfless man who chose to spare the life of the one bent on ending his. _

_My friend..._

_My l--_

The deal began.

King...   
Ace...  
Queen...   
Joker...   
Jack.

Each card bearing the face of a member of their little group - family.

Royal Flush in the suit of hearts.

Later, he would be certain the dealer had actually cursed.

Now, his attention was focused solely on the steady breaths coming from the precious burden cradled in his arms.

He fought to keep any sign of relief from showing on his face, as he turned to the ladies. It wouldn't do for word to get back to Aloysius that his victim still lived.

"Ms. Miriam, Miss Arabella," he began, perhaps a bit louder than was absolutely necessary. "I need to take Mr. Sharpe's bo..._Mr. Sharpe_ back to the church. I need to prepare him for..."

"Of course," Arabella nodded, attempting a smile. "Would you like some assistance?"

Miriam sniffed loudly and didn't even try to fake a smile, as she added bitterly, "It's the least we could do after just standing by and watching what _that man_ did."

"Come along," he said, moving toward the church in the distance and trying to tamp down on the guilt he felt for prolonging their suffering. "Our friend needs tending to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter involves a lot of my personal headcanon for Amos/Clayton's backstory.
> 
> There are some inferred nasty bits, but I think everything's vague enough for it to not be triggering, compared to what we already see in the show.
> 
> This is the most I've written in ages, so apologies again for the roughness.

Amos Kinsley was six years old the first time his father nearly beat him to death. 

He cried for his Mama, begging her to help him, but the last thing he saw, before his consciousness faded, was his mother turning away.

Amos was sixteen when his cousin's gang shot a man in cold blood and left him to take the blame. 

He evaded capture for two weeks, hiding in barns, pig sties and other foul shelters, before desperation took him back to his family's home.

It would be the last time he ever saw his mother: the day she attempted to turn him in for the bounty on his head.

Amos was eighteen the first time he killed a man. 

He'd spent two years laying low from the law and trying to make his way out to California. Most of his passage was paid for on his back; his pretty face and waifish physique ensured he never wanted for customers.

Unfortunately, those assets also turned out to be what earned him the attention of a man with wicked eyes and an even wickeder knife. 

Fortunately, one of his earlier tricks had made it a point to teach him how to properly fight, both with a gun and without. 

He came away with a nasty scar trailing from hip to groin, but his bullet had lodged itself squarely between the stranger's eyes, so he reckoned he got the better end of the deal.

It also turned out the bastard had quite a pretty sum of money stashed away in his belongings, so Amos quit turning tricks, grew a beard to hide his age, changed his name practically on a yearly basis, and became a gun for hire.

* * *

Five years later, Clayton Sharpe was born and Amos Kinsley finally ceased to exist.

At least that was the case, until one fateful day in a saloon, surrounded by people, who despite the short time they'd known each other and all the barriers he'd erected over the years, he'd begun to think of as family; one of which now held a gun on him, prepared to shoot him down over a crime he never committed, while the others stood by and did nothing to stop him.

_ 'Just like Mama _ ,' Amos' voice echoed in his mind, the tone that of a hurt child, ' _ What did you expect? This is what family is: pain & betrayal. You should've walked away when you had the chance.' _

His eyes strayed from Aloysius to the one person in their group he had hoped to one day have more than familial relations with, but Matthew wouldn't meet his eyes. 

Had he been misreading the Reverend's interest this whole time? Was a few words from a bounty hunter out to make some blood money enough to make him overlook everything they'd been through together these last few days?

Was it enough to turn Miriam, the woman he'd begun to see as the type of loving mother he never had, away, as well? Was history simply going to keep repeating itself?

_ 'Not if he kills you.' _ He really wanted to tell Amos to shut up, but yelling at himself probably wouldn't help his cause any, so he continued to try and reason with Aly, hoping that someone would intervene.

_ I don't want to die. I also don't want to have to kill a friend; no matter that he doesn't feel the same. Just distract him for two minutes, so I can reach a horse. I know how to disappear. I just need a head start; there's no need for blood to be spilled. _

* * *

There weren't many gawkers when they met in the street. Not only were duels downright boring by Deadwood standards, but most of the town had evacuated and word had not yet spread that it was safe (as safe as Deadwood ever was, anyway) to return.

Clayton knew immediately that he could easily get the draw on Aloysius, but he'd never killed a man who hadn't tried to kill him first; he wasn't about to start with someone he still considered a friend.

When Fogg fired and missed, he made his shot count - it would be a nasty wound, but survivable - hoping it would be enough to convince Aly to give up the fight.

He wasn't really surprised when Aloysius decided to carry on.

He aimed for the gun hand next, despite every instinct inside of him screaming for him to just finish it.  _ 'You tried to spare his life; it's not our fault the man is too stubborn for his own good.' _

_ Unfortunately, the same can be said about me. _

Moments later, he was lying in the dirt, consciousness fading, as Aloysius stood over him, reaching down toward his face.

Everything faded to black.

* * *

He felt as though he were floating. Everything was black and he had no concept of how long he'd been here: months, years, days, minutes?

On the plus side, Amos had finally shut up.

Then a new voice pierced out of the darkness.

_ Well, look what we have here. A pretty little soul ripe for the plucking. _

Pain coursed through him as unseen claws raked and tore at non-existant flesh.

_ Why don't you be a good boy and just let go? You're only delaying the inevitable by clinging to that last little thread. _

He started to ask what they were talking about, when he saw it. The faintest silver tether, floating from where he assumed his heart must be and disappearing into the darkness.

_ Let go and our relationship can be a mutually beneficial one.  _ Mocking laughter preceded another round of pain.  _ Well, it'll be beneficial to me, but I will try to resist the urge to make you scream when it isn't absolutely necessary. _

"Who-who are you?"

** _Who _ ** _ I am is irrelevant.  _ ** _What _ ** _ I am, is your body's new owner. As soon as that last damn little thread snaps, I'll be taking over and you will get to tag along and witness all the dirty little things that body of yours is truly capable of, when it's not hampered by a pathetic, weak-willed little crybaby like you. _

_ "Boo hoo! I can't possibly shoot my friend even to save my worthless life!" _ the voice mocked, in a scarily accurate proximation of his voice.

_ I can't wait to taste the pain you'll feel when your friends look at you with disgust and loathing as I slowly flay each--hmm. What's this? _

Suddenly, a bright flash of light erupted into view. It was too much for him to take in after the unrelenting darkness, but he was certain it was a set of cards...hearts?

Pain flared once more, though, it seemed the source was from something farther away than that of his most recent torment. 

As the pain swallowed him, he felt himself drifting away once more.

_ NOOOOO! HE'S MINE DAMMIT! I'VE CLAIMED HIM! _

The shouts began to feel more distant, but he clearly heard one last growled promise: 

_ You can't escape me forever. I'm patient. I can wait. _

Then it was drowned out by a steady, rhythmic thumping sound and the empty, threatening darkness was replaced by something comforting and welcoming.

In another life, he might've recognized the feeling of being loved and cherished, but in this life, he simply welcomed the lack of pain as he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew breathed a sigh of relief as they crossed the church's threshold into the silent darkness of the empty building. The walk had been mostly uneventful, save for a couple brief incidents. 

The first occurred when Arabella had questioned why they were taking Clayton's body to the burned out husk of a church, rather than Doc's office. He'd panicked for a moment, fearing his desire to hide Clayton away had been too transparent, and answered, with a bit more volume than was strictly necessary, that Clayton had earned a place on the altar for his part in doing God's work and saving this town from the forces of Evil and he would move him to the Doc's when the time was right.

The other was a brief encounter with one of Miriam's new friends, a so-called 'Whoresassin,' who assured them that she and the other girls would be standing guard and ensuring they were not disturbed during their time of mourning.

She also offered, as near as he could tell, to ensure Aloysius never saw the light of another morning, if Miriam so wished. 

"Thank you, darlin', but there are some things that a lady must see to herself." Her voice was as sweet as ever, but there was a cold, ruthlessness in her eyes that promised a world of pain in Aloysius Fogg's future. "However, if you ladies would be so kind as to keep me informed on his movements, it would be greatly appreciated."

Now, he sagged briefly against the door, thankful they were out of sight of prying eyes, as he spared a glance at the precious burden in his arms. Clayton was limp as a rag doll, his breathing deep, with only the occasional hitch to indicate any distress. 

He began to turn toward his rooms, and Arabella turned to him with some concern, saying, "Reverend, I don't think the altar is going to hold anyone..." just as his foot hit one of the ruined boards and he stumbled, barely catching himself from falling, but jostling Clayton in the process.

A low whimper drew all eyes to the unconscious man and the women gasped in surprise, turning disbelieving eyes upon him.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I promise I'll be more careful," he murmured apologetically in Clayton's ear, then turned back to the ladies. "Let's get him settled and then we can talk."

* * *

Miriam had been awash in a sea of grief and guilt since the moment Clayton fell. 

Back in the bar, she'd briefly considered trying to hit Aloysius with a bottle to give Clayton time to escape, but she'd given up on the idea almost immediately; there had been no way to sneak up on the older man without him seeing her. So, instead, she'd simply stood by and watched someone she'd grown to care for deeply be gunned down in cold blood. 

It hadn't been a duel, or justice, it had been the premeditated murder of an innocent man. Anyone watching could see that Clayton was going out of his way to avoid spilling his erstwhile new friend's lifeblood, at the peril, and ultimate cost, of his own. Those were not the actions of a guilty man.

_ "I've not shot a man who wasn't trying to shoot me first." _

Part of her wanted to hate him for being so stupidly, stubbornly noble, but a larger part was proud, despite the bitter pain of loss. 

She'd begun, despite telling herself it was ridiculous, to see the laconic gunman as something of a surrogate son and his final moments had simply been final, horrible proof that she had chosen well. She only hoped his real mother, wherever she might be, had appreciated the treasure she had been blessed with while she had him.

Now, she could only stare in shock as the Reverend spoke gentle words (was he even aware of the endearment he'd used?) into the ear of a dead man - a dead man who was clearly breathing.

"He's alive!" Arabella's awed exclamation was still echoing in her ears, even as her feet began to move of their own volition; her heart leading her forward, even as her mind fought to catch up to what was happening.

_ He's alive. He's breathing. He made a noise-- _

A whimper. That had been the sound. Clayton may be alive, but he was obviously still hurt.

Miriam's back immediately stiffened, as her steps quickened and she pushed her guilt and grief aside. It was time to focus on the here and now. 

Right now, her boy needed her and she would move heaven and hell to ensure that he was safe.

First, they would tend to his wounds; then, she would see that any other dangers were dealt with, starting with one Aloysius Fogg.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone. 
> 
> Last week was stressful enough that my muses apparently decided to go on vacation without me, damn them.

Matthew sat, looking out the window at the breaking dawn, absently rubbing two pieces of metal between his fingers. His shotgun was propped next to the chair for easy access.

A few feet away, in his bed, Clayton lay still as the dead; only the slight rise and fall of the blanket covering his chest gave proof of his continued existence.

He'd been like that for hours, the last sounds coming once they got him to the bed and checked his wounds. 

The Reverend glanced down at the two bullets in his hand. They'd no sooner got Clayton's vest off and opened his undershirt than the two pieces of metal hit the floor, startling all three of them and causing him to once again jostle the injured man, eliciting another low whimper.

Matthew winced, upset with himself for once more hurting the other man, then winced again from the glare Miriam threw his way with an admonishing, "Be more careful there, Reverend."

The wound to his gut, from which one of the slugs had been expelled, turned out to be mostly, but not entirely, healed. They'd dressed it and checked for any signs of infection; thankfully, so far, the wound at least seemed clean, though was obviously still tender enough to cause him to moan in pain even while unconscious. 

Matthew had found himself humming an old lullaby and stroking the gunslinger's long locks, as the women tried to finish their ministrations as quickly and gently as they were able.

The skin over Clayton's heart, meanwhile, was flawless, showing no sign that a bullet had ever so much as grazed it. 

Both he and Miriam were a bit concerned over the thoroughness of that healing and what it might mean, as far as the Dealer was concerned, but Arabella had pointed out the upside of the situation: if there were no scar, it would be easier to convince others that Fogg had missed, rather than explaining to the town how exactly a dead man was walking among them.

First, though, he needed to wake up, and in the meantime, he needed to be kept safe.

On the floor, next to the bed, Miriam had set up a makeshift bedroll and was sleeping fitfully. He had suggested she go back to her hotel room, but she insisted that it would be safer if they stayed together and took watches, in case Fogg foolishly decided to come by to check on his thoroughness or collect 'the body.'

Arabella had stayed as long as propriety would allow, then headed home to her husband, promising to come back by in the morning.

He turned his attention back to the window, noticing a couple of Joanie's girls apparently changing shifts on their continued surveillance of the church, and was vaguely aware of Miriam stirring, before he heard her sudden intake of breath.

"Mr. Sharpe," she gasped. "So good to see you awake."

Matthew was on his feet almost instantly, nearly tripping over his gun in his haste to reach the bed.

He arrived at Miriam's side just as the excitement faded from her face and she continued in a confused, worried tone, "Mr. Sharpe? Clayton?" She glanced up. "Reverend, something's wrong."

Matthew looked down into Clayton's face. His eyes were open, but were unfocused and moving in seemingly random directions. 

The Reverend's heart sank a bit. He'd seen this before, during his time in the cavalry. Occasionally, some greenhorn would get himself kicked in the head and end up in the infirmary for days or weeks and more than one had ended up looking just like this. 

Sometimes, they would wake up not long after.

Sometimes they never woke again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muses were feeling extra generous this weekend. I don't look for this to become a habit. lol

An hour later, Clayton's eyes drifted shut once more. Perhaps it was a trick of the early morning light, or just wishful thinking, but now he looked more like a sleeping young man than a rigid corpse.

Miriam smoothed the blanket covering him, tucking it in a bit, and brushed a light kiss upon his forehead. "You find your way back to us, you hear? You didn't survive a bullet to your heart just to fade away now." 

Sudden movement by the window caught her attention and she turned to see that the Reverend had jumped to his feet and was intently staring at something happening outside.

She made her way over and saw what had his attention: Katy and Brittany were standing together, shotguns raised and aimed in the direction of one Aloysius Fogg, who was fast approaching the church.

"That son of a bitch," she swore and reached for her rifle. "Stay here and protect Clayton, Father."

"Wait!" He reached out a hand to stop her, a panicked look on his face. "You're not going to kill--?"

"Don't worry, Reverend," she assured him, coldly, turning to head outside. "If I shoot him, I won't be aiming for his  _ heart. _ " 

* * *

Miriam opened the door of the church just in time to hear Aloysius address the two girls barring his way.

"Now, I don't have a quarrel with either of you young ladies, but I have a bounty collect, which means I need that body."

"You've done enough harm to Ms. Miriam. We're not gonna let you cause her anymore grief," Katy replied, her voice almost eerily calm. "I liked Mr. Sharpe and I saw how he went out of his way to spare your life, so I'd hate to go against his final wishes, but don't think I won't shoot you down like the murdering dog you are."

Miriam walked out onto the church's steps, her rifle up and ready to fire. Fogg noticed and tipped his hat in her direction, his eyes as void of emotion as they'd been the evening before. "Morning, Miss Miriam."

"Don't 'Morning' me, Aloysius Fogg. I know why you're here and you're not getting him. Go away and be thankful you have your life and the gold that the man you shot helped you acquire."

"What's going on here?" All eyes turned to see Sheriff Bullock approaching.

"I'm just trying to retrieve a corpse so I can collect the bounty I'm rightfully due, Sheriff," Fogg told him, not taking his eyes off of Miriam and the rifle he had not failed to notice was aimed farther south than either of the other guns currently trained on him.

The sheriff looked the scene over and sighed. "Come along, Mr. Fogg, I'll write up a witness statement for you." His voice grew harder as he continued, "After which you will pack up your things and leave my town and I had best not hear that you've come anywhere near the church in the meantime."

"Yes, sir," Fogg replied. He turned to follow the sheriff, but not before once more tipping his hat in Miriam's direction. "Goodbye, Miss Miriam."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the characters in Undeadwood, Arabella was the one I connected with the least. Marisha did a great job, as usual, but I just never developed any type of attachment to Bella.
> 
> That's made finding a voice for her very difficult, but I wanted to have at least one chapter from her POV and this scene has been playing in my head all week. Hopefully it works.

Arabella strolled toward the church, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. Of course, she still missed her sister terribly and was worried for Mr. Sharpe, but her own life had taken an unexpected turn for the better and she hoped that maybe it was a sign things were improving all around.

She'd returned home the night before, surprised to find Mr. Whitlock both awake and sober, and dreaded the inevitable interaction with her new husband.

What followed was the first real conversation they'd had since meeting, which resulted in a new understanding between them.

As it turns out, Mr. Whitlock felt as trapped by family obligations as she, possibly even moreso. He had no interest in marriage or any other relations with her sister, herself or any other woman and was eager to work out an arrangement that would allow them both the freedom to do as they wished, while keeping up appearances for the families. 

His excessive drinking was a result of his guilt for not feeling the amount of grief over the loss of his wife that he felt a husband should.

"Your sister was a lovely woman and I did enjoy her company once we'd worked out an arrangement that suited us both," he assured her.

It turned out to be a fairly pleasant conversation and in the end, she felt as though she may have gained a new ally, if not exactly a friend.

Which is why she did feel a bit guilty about scaring about 20 years off of his life this morning when she'd gone to the back of the house for a bit of impromptu target practice around dawn, not realizing he was in the outhouse, about 5 feet from where she'd placed her target.

Oops.

By the time she left the house, his hands had mostly stopped shaking and he was working on one of his puzzles to finish settling his nerves.

She was feeling too proud of herself, though, to feel too badly about it. As it turns out, her target: a family bible, complete with an old daguerreotype of her parents shortly after their marriage, had been just the right thickness to stop her bullet.

They now had something to show to anyone who questioned how Mr. Sharpe had survived the duel.

The fact her bullet had managed to completely obliterate her father's smug face in the picture was just icing on the cake.

As she neared the church, she could see Miriam on the steps, rifle in her hands, intently watching someone walking away; it took a moment for her to realize it was Fogg. She quickened her pace, calling out as she approached, "Miriam!"

Miriam seemed to release a breath she'd been holding, lowered the gun and gave her a shaky smile. "Good morning, Bella. Hope your morning has been less eventful."

"Aside from nearly giving my husband a heart attack and making him fall into our outhouse, it's been rather quiet." Miriam raised an eyebrow, but Arabella waved it off. "Don't ask." 

She turned to look in the direction Aloysius had gone. "What's going on here? Fogg didn't make it inside." The last wasn't a question. The fact Fogg still lived and Miriam was able to make light of the situation somewhat meant he hadn't gotten anywhere near Clayton.

"No, he was no match for our security." Miriam waved to Brittany & Katy, who returned the gesture. "He wanted Clayton's body so he could collect his blood money and thought we'd just hand him over - like he was  _ nothing _ ." Her voice cracked on the last word, then nearly became a growl. "The nerve of that man!" She visibly tried to calm herself, but the bitterness remained in her voice as she continued, "The Sheriff told him to leave town, but not before offering to help him collect the bounty without need of a body."

"At least if he collects the bounty, no one else will have reason to come after Clayton." Arabella smiled sadly, reaching out to pat Miriam's back. The older woman had developed some very deep maternal feelings for their gunslinger, but it was obvious that wasn't the only pain fueling her anger at Fogg's betrayal, whether she could admit it to herself or not.

"Fogg's not our concern now. Let's go take care of our friend," she said softly, guiding the other woman inside.


	7. Chapter 7

By the fourth day of the vigil, Clayton Sharpe's continued existence was the worst kept secret in Deadwood, if not the entire Dakota Territory.

While the whoresassins had cut their guard duty back to overnight only, the fact they were still watching over the church was not something to go uncommented on.

Neither were the facts that no new graves had been dug, the Reverend had canceled all services until further notice, and Mrs. Miriam Landisman had requested a canteen of clear broth every morning to take to the church, despite the Reverend regularly leaving to take his own meals at noon and six like clockwork, therefore not being the convalescing party.

As was often the case in Deadwood, this knowledge piqued very little interest. Partly because the fact the bounty on Sharpe had already been claimed was also common knowledge, and partly because Al Swearengen had made it known that 'Anyone who messes with Sharpe or his fucking ghost, is going to fucking well answer to _me_!'

Al was many things, but he was no fool. Clayton Sharpe was a valuable asset, as were the rest of the so-called 'Deadwood Five' (Four now, he supposed), and he didn't just toss assets aside when they could still be useful to him.

When the bounty notice had come to be delivered to Fogg, he'd delayed giving it to the man until after their assignment was complete. Even then, he'd hoped that enough camaraderie had developed within the group to prevent bloodshed, but had made sure the timing was right, so Fogg couldn't just walk up and immediately put a bullet in Sharpe's brain.

Sharpe was far more valuable to him than Fogg (not that he'd tell the man that, of course) and he'd been confident in Sharpe's ability to take the man in a fair fight.

Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on the camaraderie he'd hoped to foster being a one-way street and the gunfighter getting himself killed - or as it seemed now, gravely wounded - out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to someone who obviously had none.

_ Friendship. _ The mere thought of the word brought a sneer to his lips.  _ Friendship is for suckers. _

If Sharpe did indeed survive, hopefully the fool had learned this lesson well.

* * *

"Okay, there's arm number two, now where's your head?" Matthew was in the process of getting Clayton redressed in one of his old night shirts, following his morning bath. "How can you possibly be so much smaller than me and still be so imposing? You're almost as bad as--"

"Reverend?" Miriam's voice came from the direction of the church's front door, accompanied by a gentle rap.

"Speak of the devil and she appears..." Matthew murmured under his breath, then called out, "We're both decent, come on up!" as he got the shirt straightened out, gently laid Clayton back on the bed and began tucking the other man in once more.

"Decent might be a bit of a stretch," Miriam teased as she entered the room. She placed a fresh canteen of broth on the table beside the bed and bent down to stroke Clayton's hair, brushing his bangs back long enough to plant a kiss on his forehead. "Good morning, sugar. You're looking so good. Nice and clean. I've got your breakfast right here, maybe we can get more in you than on you today, hm?"

Despite the chipper tone of her voice, she couldn't hide the concern in her eyes as she took in Clayton's appearance. His already lithe body was beginning to look a bit gaunt as the days went by with only water and broth as his daily sustenance. To make matters more difficult, the day before, despite still showing no signs of consciousness, his body had begun making seemingly random movements, in addition to the habitual opening and closing of his eyes, and they'd ended up spilling more broth than they were able to actually feed him.

"We got through the night and bathtime with no problems, so hopefully--" A heavy knock at the door interrupted the Reverend's reply and they both tensed, immediately preparing to grab their weapons. "Who's there?" he called loudly.

"Reverend? It's Sheriff Bullock. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course, be right there!" Matthew looked at Miriam and then nodded toward the bed, waiting for her to place herself in front of the bed, rifle in hand, before grabbing his shotgun and heading down to meet the Sheriff.

He opened the door slowly, allowing the Sheriff to see the gun, but pointing it at the ground once he was sure the other man was alone. "Apologies, Sheriff, but we're a bit wary around here these days and better safe than sorry."

"Understandable, especially if the rumors going around town are true."

"Rumors?"

"Seems a certain duel to the death may not have been as lethal as originally thought?" The lawman seemed to notice as Matthew's grip on his gun began to tighten and held up his hands. "Whoa now, Reverend. Ain't here to cause Mr. Sharpe any problems. Quite the opposite, actually. May I please come in? I think I have some news you need to hear."

Matthew hesitated. He didn't really think the Sheriff was an immediate risk, but if he knew Clayton was alive, because of 'rumors,' then things just got a lot more dangerous for their already vulnerable friend.

_ Well, won't do Clayton any good to get on the Sheriff's bad side. _

The Reverend stepped back, opening the door wide enough for the Sheriff to enter, then led the other man up to his bedroom.

"It's okay," he assured Miriam, as they approached the door. "Apparently the Sheriff has already heard rumors about our friend's narrow escape and he has some news for us."

"Mrs. Landisman." The Sheriff tipped his hat politely.

"Sheriff," she nodded back, politely, lowering her gun, but remaining between him and the bed.

"Mr. Sharpe," he addressed the figure on the bed. "Good to see you're still among us."

Matthew glanced at the bed, seeing that Clayton's eyes were once more open. "Sorry, Sheriff, he's not really awake; he hasn't regained consciousness since the duel. His eyes just open and close occasionally."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I really hoped I could share this news with you, Mr. Sharpe." He said in Clayton's direction once more, before turning his attention back to Miriam and the Reverend. "After Mr. Fogg went off to collect his bounty, I decided to do a bit of poking around and see what I could find out about one Amos Kinsley and I just received a reply.

"Turns out the bounty Fogg planned to collect was cancelled two months ago, because Kinsley was declared an innocent man."


	8. Chapter 8

The Sheriff had been gone for less than two minutes when the church door opened with a bang and they heard Arabella calling their names, followed by hurried footsteps as she made her way to the bedroom.

She stopped in the doorway, quickly scanning the room, before explaining, "Celine told me the Sheriff was here."

"He was. You just missed him." Matthew sighed. He glanced toward Miriam, who was currently facing away, staring out the window with her arms wrapped tightly around herself; she hadn't spoken since the Sheriff delivered his news. "Turns out he did some research on Mr. Sharpe's former identity and discovered that he'd been exonerated a couple months back, so the bounty--"

"Was garbage." The undercurrent of rage in Miriam's quiet voice was palpable. "I knew Clayton wasn't a cold-blooded murderer; I didn't need to hear that from the Sheriff." She turned to face them, tears in her eyes. "Aloysius should've known it, too."

"Miriam, Aly wasn't himself. He started acting strange not long after his healing spell failed, remember?" Arabella was focused on the other woman, so she failed to notice the Reverend wince at the mention of the spell. "We knew using those spells came with a cost."

"Clayton shouldn't be the one to pay it!" Miriam cried out, pointing at the man in the bed, whose wide eyes were currently fixed on her and who flinched as her hand swung in his direction. "Clayton?" she gasped, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Matthew immediately rushed to the bed, kneeling down and smiling with relief as Clayton's eyes tracked his movement. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said, keeping his voice soft and gentle. "You've had us worried."

The Reverend was vaguely aware of the two women moving to stand behind him, but his attention was focused on studying the other man. Clayton was clearly awake and aware of their presence, but so far had made no attempt at communication; his eyes, wide as saucers, were filled with a mixture of confusion and fear and seemed to be attempting to keep track of any movements they made. Matthew started to reach toward him, but stopped as the younger man recoiled from the sudden movement.

_ Skittish as a colt. Understandable, all things considered. _

"Shh. I'm not going to hurt you," he assured, quietly, and began to reach forward again, much slower this time. Clayton continued to shrink back and Matthew could see him trembling; it damn near broke his heart, but he didn't pull back.

"Reverend, he's scared to death," Miriam admonished, keeping her voice low. "Perhaps you shouldn't push right now."

"We don't really have a choice, Missus." He maintained the same soft, calm tone, even though he wasn't currently addressing Clayton. "He can't fend for himself yet, so he needs to know he can trust us, so we can help him."

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, even though he knew it was mere seconds, his hand made contact with the side of Clayton's face, cupping his cheek. Clayton squeezed his eyes shut, clearly expecting pain to follow, and he let out a small whimper. 

Matthew was sure his heart did shatter at the sound, but he forced himself to stay calm and gently began stroking Clayton's hair. "See?" he said softly. "Not going to hurt you. Never going to hurt you." He kept murmuring assurances and petting Clayton's hair and gradually the tension in the other man's body began to melt away and he opened his eyes, looking up at Matthew, still seeming confused, but with less fear than before. 

"That's it. You're safe," the Reverend continued to croon. "Everything's going to be just fine."

For the first time in nearly a week, Matthew truly believed it would.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it occurred to me that with Day Six around the corner it was probably time to spare a little attention for the fifth member of the Deadwood Five and this happened...

Once there was a bounty hunter named Aloysius Fogg and if you asked anyone who had done business with him to describe him, they would all say the same: "He's one ruthless son of a bitch."

From the day he was born in the slave quarters of a Mississippi plantation, Aloysius knew injustice.

When he and his fellow slaves rose up against their owners, he got his first taste of what justice may feel like.

After the war, he settled down briefly with a sharecropping family in Texas. It was a hard life, but they were free and the children were educated; the eldest girl even took it upon herself to teach him to read.

One day, he returned from a fishing trip to find the home in flames and bodies hanging in one of the few trees on the property. He buried the girl with a handwritten note, promising he'd see justice done or die trying.

It took him nearly a year to track down the last of the murderers, but by the time the last one fell, he had became an expert tracker with a seemingly unquenchable thirst to see justice served; hunting bounties seemed the perfect next step and for nearly a decade, he was one of the best in the business.

Then came the day a man begged for his life, swearing his innocence, but the sweet siren song of justice was too loud and Aloysius Fogg, ruthless son of a bitch that he was, put a bullet through the man's heart.

A cry rang out and as the man's body fell to the ground, Aloysius was left with the sight of the man's young son, who had apparently gotten free from his mother's arms, bleeding where the bullet had passed through his father's body and grazed his temple. 

Days later, Aloysius Fogg discovered the man had been truthful about his innocence. It was simply deemed 'bad luck' that the out-of-date bounty was still around to be claimed and he was declared to be innocent of any wrongdoing.

The law may have exonerated him, but his conscience was another matter entirely. He'd ended an innocent life and permanently scarred a  _ child _ , how could he ever claim to be seeking justice after this?

He hadn't gotten a full night's rest since that day.

A few months later, he met a former lawman who was struggling with ghosts of his own. Between them, they came up with a new plan for seeking justice and atoning for their sins.

Aloysius got a lot of strange looks at first. No one could believe the infamous bounty hunter was turning down prime bounties only to focus on removing any known out-of-date posters and hunting down their subjects to give them peace of mind, so they could stop living in fear and maybe get the peaceful sleep he had resigned himself to never experiencing again.

He had just finished a job in Ogallala when he received word there was a recently cancelled bounty on someone named Kinsley and the information would be forwarded to him at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood.

No rest for the wicked, as they say. It was time to hitch a ride to the Dakota Territory and see if he could save one more innocent from the crosshairs of some other ruthless justice seeker and Aloysius could continue his quest for atonement.


	10. Chapter 10

Aloysius was sick of fog.

He had gotten just past the outskirts of Deadwood when a thick fog rolled in and surrounded him, seriously hampering his ability to make any good time on his thousand-plus mile trek to Texas and his bounty.

The fog seemed familiar, for some reason he couldn't bring to mind, and despite the poor visibility, he felt oddly safe within its mist, but that did not make the delay in travel any less annoying. The fact it disappeared almost immediately after he set up camp at sunset and reappeared as soon as the sun rose just added insult to injury.

It took him two days just to get as far as Rochford and by the time he reached the relatively new settlement, he was more than ready to blow off steam - not to mention a bit of his Deadwood gold - in one of their upstart saloons.

He remained there for three nights, enjoying both some good sleep and some good company of the female persuasion, before setting out bright and early on what looked to be a nice clear day.

The town had barely faded from sight when the fog rolled back in.

He spent the next several hours alternately glaring and cussing at the fog. There was no way he'd make Tigerville by nightfall, so he resigned himself to spending another night under the stars.

Sunset was getting close when the fog suddenly lifted enough for him to find a perfect outcropping to set up camp for the night. He almost passed it up out of spite, but eventually capitulated and found a good spot to tie up his horse and began his preparations for the night.

He had barely gotten seated in front of his small campfire when a strangely familiar voice suddenly spoke in his ear. " _ Showdown _ ."

There was a sudden flash of light behind his eyes and a set of cards being turned over filled his vision, as memories and emotions flooded his mind, overwhelming him and he fell to his side, curling in pain and shame as tears ran unheeded down his cheeks and a guttural cry left his throat.

Why hadn't Sharpe just finished him? It would've been more merciful than forcing him to live with the knowledge that he had yet another ghost on his conscience.

He lost track of how long he lay there, eyes squeezed shut and tears leaking, not caring that he was vulnerable to attack from any man or beast who happened upon him; after all it would be no worse than he deserved for his sins, old and new.

Eventually, he became aware of something surrounding him: soft and enveloping as a shroud, but warm as a parent's embrace. He reluctantly opened his eyes, once more finding himself surrounded by the fog.

Unlike before, the fog created a solid barrier around him and he gaped as images began to flicker in the roiling mist.

_ Clayton Sharpe falling to the ground. _

_ Himself walking away. _

_ The Reverend lifting Sharpe's body into his arms, a strangely relieved look momentarily appearing on his face. _

_ Sharpe lying on a bed with the Reverend's arms supporting him as Miriam brings a spoon to his mouth and he obediently swallows the offered liquid. _

"He's alive?" The words escaped him in a gasp, as a relieved sob tore from his throat. "Thank God."

The fog flashed in a manner that could only indicate a warning, then the last image reappeared, but it looked as though another image had been superimposed over Sharpe, and it was horrific.

It appeared as though the gunslinger had been mauled: tooth and claw marks covered his body and as Aloysius watched, some strange, ghostly black tendrils appeared, reaching for what Fogg now realized was a representation of Sharpe's soul.

" ** _I'VE CLAIMED HIM! HE'S MINE! YOU CAN'T INTERFERE!_ ** " a voice suddenly shrieked, the sound like metal rasping over stone. The image shattered and that section of fog was momentarily dispelled in a gust of hot wind that nearly scalded Aloysius' skin and left a faint scent of sulfur hanging in the air.

Aloysius sat in stunned silence for a few moments, trying to make sense of all he'd just witnessed. Something had a hold on Sharpe's soul; something evil that had harmed him already and clearly wanted to do more.

A sick feeling came over him and he looked back at the still hovering fog. "I'm the reason that thing got hold of Sharpe." It wasn't a question. "I have to fix this. I have to go back to Deadwood."

The fog dispersed on his final words and Aloysius knew it would not reappear in the morning, now that he was on the right path once more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure about this chapter, but after two days of angsting over it, I'm ready to move on to more important matters.
> 
> Also, a continuity note: While reading over previous chapters, I realized I lost a minor section in one of my edits that mentioned the church had been worked on during the several days Clay was unconscious. Not sure how I can work it back in at this point, but just wanted to give assurances that they aren't still hanging out in a building that could collapse on them at any moment. ;)

Matthew Mason was tired; weary both in body and soul.

The hopefulness he'd felt the morning that Clayton had awakened, when the fear in his eyes began to abate as Matthew soothed him, didn't last long.

Once Matthew had gotten him past the initial fright that had come upon his waking, Clayton had gradually calmed and accepted the ladies' presence, as well, which seemed like a good sign. 

Unfortunately, the more they interacted with Clayton, the more apparent it became that something was off, no matter how much Matthew attempted to deny what he was seeing.

Miriam and Arabella were concerned that Clayton made no efforts to communicate, beyond the occasional whimper or grunt, and while his gaze would focus on whichever person was speaking to him at the time, there seemed to be little to no comprehension and his attention would begin to wander after a very short time. 

Matthew insisted it was just lingering lethargy from being unconscious for four days and Clayton simply needed more time to 'wake up'. "It's not like he was a big talker before."

For breakfast the following morning, Miriam decided to forgo the broth they'd been feeding him when he was unconscious and see how he did with some gruel. 

Matthew seated himself in the bed behind Clayton, propping him up, and convinced a reluctant Miriam to allow Clayton to try and feed himself, insisting that a bit of autonomy might help the other man feel a bit more like himself. 

To her credit, Miriam was polite enough to not comment when more of the cereal ended up flicked into the Reverend's face than ended up in Clayton's mouth; she simply took the spoon gently from Clayton's clenched fist and proceeded to feed him the rest of the bowl.

Clayton's eyes began to droop halfway through the feeding and he was asleep within moments of Miriam putting the bowl away. 

Matthew gently extricated himself from under the limp body, tucked the blankets around Clayton, and made his way to the wash basin across the room to clean up.

He was just drying his face off when he became aware of a presence behind him.

"Reverend," Miriam began, her voice soft, but stern. "Denying the truth isn't going to help anyone, least of all Clayton."

"And what truth is that?" he asked, not turning around.

"The person lying in that bed is not Mr. Sharpe."

" _ What? _ " Now he did turn to look at her, astonished. "Of course that's Clayton. who else could it possibly be?"

"I didn't say it wasn't Clayton, I said it wasn't  _ Mr. Sharpe _ . Not the Mr. Sharpe that we knew before and not the man you so desperately want him to be." She gave him a sad smile. "I'm not blind, Reverend. I saw the way the two of you looked at each other and I understand all too well the pain of letting go, but you have to.

"Just for now," she continued, before he could argue. "This may be only temporary, but right now, for all intents and purposes, that is not a man lying in that bed; it's a child. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"She's right, Reverend." Arabella's voice startled him; he'd nearly forgotten she was there, checking their inventory of medicinal supplies. "Letting him attempt to feed himself wasn't unreasonable, but if you keep pushing Clayton simply to prove to yourself that Mr. Sharpe is still in there somewhere, you're only setting him up for failure - and yourself for disappointment. How long do you think it'll be before you start resenting him for not being the man you so desperately want him to be?"

"So, what? We just give up?" he demanded, outraged.

"Of course not," Miriam sighed, visibly collecting herself before continuing, calmly. "We all hope things will improve and we'll get him back, but hoping for the future does no good if you're ignoring what's in front of you now."

As if on cue, a sudden, piercing wail caused them all to jump and turn toward the subject of their conversation, who had managed to throw off his covers and was thrashing in his sleep, dangerously close to the edge of the bed. 

Despite it being a relatively small room and Matthew rushing forward as soon as he saw what was happening, he wasn't quick enough to prevent the inevitable.

Thankfully, the Reverend had taken to sleeping on the floor beside the bed and had been too lazy to move his bedding this morning, so there was cushioning to soften Clayton's fall, so things weren't as bad as they could've been, but healing wounds didn't need much of an excuse to remind you they were there.

As soon as he hit the floor, Clayton's eyes sprang open, then began to fill with tears as his hands clutched at his stomach and he began to sob.

"Hey, hey. Shh." Matthew crooned softly, kneeling down and petting Clayton's hair. "It's okay. I know it hurts, but you're going to be fine, sweetheart." He glanced up at Arabella and motioned her forward.

Arabella came to kneel beside him, gently brushed Clayton's hands aside and lifted his nightshirt, so she could check the bandages around his midsection. "Everything looks fine. The wound is pretty much healed at this point; just a bit sensitive to sudden drops and stops," she assured, smiling and reaching over to thumb away a tear on Clayton's cheek.

The shock and pain of the fall seemed to be fading fairly quickly and Clayton was visibly calmer, attention focused solely on Matthew. To everyone's surprise, the younger man lifted his arms in the air, reaching toward the Reverend, as though asking to be picked up.

It was the first time since waking that he'd initiated any type of contact.

It was also the moment Matthew realized Miriam was right: this was not  _ his _ Clayton, but in this moment, it didn't matter. He would continue to hope and pray that the man he fell in love with found his way back to them, but in the meantime, he would see that the Clayton who was here now got all the care and affection they  _ both _ deserved.

That had been three days ago.

Three days in which Matthew hadn't left the room for longer than a trip to the outhouse, lest they deal with the mother of all panic-induced tantrums if he was out of Clayton's sight for too long.

Three days in which Clayton stubbornly refused to sleep unless he was cuddled in the Reverend's arms, head resting on Matthew's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Three days of waning hope as Arabella and Miriam pored through every medical book they could find in the Doc's office and could find nothing that helped with their current situation.

Currently, Matthew was sitting in a rocking chair that had been gifted to them by Joanie and her girls, Clayton contentedly sitting in his lap munching on some fried mush (they'd discovered that while utensils were beyond his current level of coordination, finger foods worked just fine). Meanwhile, Miriam was reading the last of Doc's books and Arabella had started taking notes out of some specially ordered Occult books she'd just received.

There was a knock at the front of the church and they could hear the Sheriff calling through the door, "Reverend? Ladies? It's Sheriff Bullock, y'all got a minute?"

"Just a minute, Sheriff!" Miriam called, then turned to Matthew, smiling as she glanced at Clayton. "You stay put, Reverend. Don't need any unnecessary fusses. Bella and I will see what he wants."

The ladies closed the bedroom door behind them - none of them wanted anyone gawking at Clayton in his current state, no matter how much they trusted the Sheriff's discretion - and made their way to the front door.

"Afternoon, ladies," the Sheriff greeted, once they'd opened the door. He removed his hat and began fiddling with the brim in a nervous gesture they'd never seen from the lawman - even after a gunfight with the walking dead.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," Miriam began, warily. They'd finally begun to let their guard down once Aloysius had left town to start his long trek to Texas, but she was beginning to regret not picking her rifle up on the way to greet the Sheriff. "Is there something we can help you with?"

"Actually, um, I'm here with an offer of assistance for you." He cleared his throat, unnecessarily. "Someone came to me today, claiming there was something wrong with Mr. Sharpe and they had information that might help Mrs. Whitlock to fix it."

"They mentioned me by name?" Arabella asked, shocked, turning to look at Miriam, who seemed just as surprised.

"Apparently you're good with all that," he made several wild gestures in the air, "spooky magic stuff." He cleared his throat again. "Anyway, they wanted to speak to you directly and I know how wary you are of anyone coming close to Mr. Sharpe - and understandably so. 

"So, I thought I would see if you might be willing to meet out here with me as your backup. I've already confiscated their weapons, so there's no immediate danger."

"Who is this person?" Arabella asked, her voice betraying a bit of the suspicion that was starting to grow inside her. Surely it couldn't be...

The Sheriff gave a whistle and called loudly, "Come on over, but keep your distance!"

Emerging from the shadows across the street, hands held out to his sides, Aloysius Fogg slowly approached the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, this will all start to make more sense in another chapter or two - or at least as much sense as the Weird West ever does. lol


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year. :)
> 
> This will probably be my last update until at least the weekend, but I think the end is in sight. Probably not more than two or three chapters max - unless the muse goes off on an unexpected tangent somewhere along the way. lol

Aloysius tried to appear as non-threatening as possible as he slowly made his way to stand behind the Sheriff, keeping his hands in sight and not meeting either woman's gaze, though, common sense and self-preservation ensured he kept track of any sudden movements Miriam were to make.

"Afternoon, ladies," he greeted once he'd stopped behind the Sheriff. "Sorry for the intru--"

"You son of a bitch!" 

Everyone was surprised when not Miriam, but Arabella, flew down the stairs and her fist connected with Fogg's jaw. 

"Ow!" Arabella grabbed her aching hand and seemed more shocked than anyone at her actions.

"Mighty fine right cross you got there, Mrs. Whitlock," Aloysius said, impressed even as he rubbed his sore jaw. "Reckon I deserve that."

"You deserve a lot worse than that." Everyone turned to see that Miriam had pulled the Derringer she kept strapped to her leg for emergencies and was now aiming it at Aloysius.

"Mrs. Landisman, please don't do anything rash."

"No offense, Sheriff, but this is none of your concern." Miriam's eyes never left Aloysius and her voice was eerily calm, as she addressed the others. "Arabella, please move away from Mr. Fogg."

"Miriam, wait. The spell-"

"Is no excuse!" Miriam shouted.

"It's okay, Ms. Bella," Aloysius assured the younger woman, raising his hands above his head as he turned to address Miriam. "You're right, Ms. Miriam, there is no excuse for my actions, as much as I would love to make one. 

"The spell didn't make me shoot Mr. Sharpe, it just proved that the man I used to be is still inside me, no matter how hard I try to leave him behind." If he'd been able to meet her eyes, he'd have seen a flicker of doubt appear at both the words and the self-loathing behind them.

"I know what I did was wrong and I deserve whatever punishment you want to dole out, but  _ please _ give me a chance to explain why I came back. There's something about Mr. Sharpe that you don't know."

Arabella and the Sheriff  _ had _ been watching Miriam's expression very carefully. Any relief they had begun to feel as her certainty wavered was immediately crushed as Aloysius' final words reignited her anger.

"You  _ dare _ to think you can tell me what I do or don't know, Aloysius Fogg?" Her voice shook with indignant fury and everyone tensed, half expecting a gunshot to follow, but a large hand suddenly appeared from behind her and snatched the gun away. 

Immediately, Miriam's fury shifted to the man now standing behind her. "Give that back, dammit!" she cried, beating ineffectually at Reverend Mason's chest, before collapsing into his arms, crying out almost a week's worth of frustration and anger.

"It's alright. Let it out," Matthew soothed, patting her on the back, then released a sigh. "Why does everyone in this town think bullets are the solution to every problem?"

"It's not loaded," Miriam admitted as she pulled away, sniffling and trying to compose herself. "I just wanted to scare the son of a bitch - and maybe hit him with it." She wiped her eyes and turned to glare at Aloysius once more.

Dubious, Matthew turned the barrel and checked the chamber, only to find it empty as she'd said.

"I told you," she said, primly. "I wasn't going to keep a loaded gun so close while tending to Clayton." She looked toward the door. "Speaking of Clayton, how long have you been gone, Reverend?"

"Oh, dear," Matthew practically threw the gun back to her and rushed back inside. 

They'd managed to teach Clayton a bit of patience, so the Reverend could step away long enough to visit the outhouse when necessary, but they soon learned that patience had a very finite length. It didn't take long for the fear of abandonment to set in, no matter that Miriam or Arabella might still be in the room, and Clayton would be inconsolable until Matthew was there holding him once more.

When no commotion came from inside, Miriam figured the Reverend had made the deadline this time and turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

Arabella and Aloysius had apparently taken advantage of the distraction to begin discussing all that had been happening. The Sheriff, meanwhile, was just leaning against the stair railing, a bemused expression on his face, as though he thought they were all insane.

_ Perhaps he's right. _

"So you're telling me, "Arabella's voice picked up in volume, most likely for Miriam's benefit, "that the  _ fog _ purposely kept you from getting too far away and then  _ told _ you there was something wrong with Mr. Sharpe once you regained your senses?" Someone who hadn't seen what they had may have passed Aloysius' story off as nonsense, but Arabella was clearly giving it due consideration.

"Fog?" Miriam asked. "Like the fog up at the cemetery?"

"Yes, ma'am." Aloysius nodded.

"That ain't fog." 

They all turned to stare at the Sheriff. 

"It's how I knew Mr. Fogg was telling me the truth," Bullock said, shrugging. "If that stuff is hanging around you, you can't be all bad."

"If it's not fog, what is it?" Arabella asked.

"Some kind of nature spirits. Local shaman told me about 'em. Apparently, they've just started showing up in the past year or so. The Sioux think they're a sign of good things to come. Closest thing to angels we're likely to see around these parts."

"Angels, huh? Well, that explains it." Aloysius grimaced and met their confused gazes. "They showed me something dark and evil tearing at Mr. Sharpe's soul and the thing started screaming about having ' _ claimed _ ' him. If we got angels, reckon that would be a demon. "

"Manitou." The Sheriff said the word like a curse, then spit as though to get the taste out of his mouth. Seeing their blank expressions, he sighed. "Shaman told me about those, too. 

"They're evil spirits who can supposedly raise a corpse - not like those mindless things you helped me fight, mind. The poor sod's soul gets to come along for the ride; maybe even gets to control the body for a while, until the manitou wears them down and takes over."

"So," Arabella began, clearly working things out in her head. "Aloysius shoots Clayton and one of these things decides Clayton is going to be their new toy, but then the Reverend manages to save Clayton's life just in the nick of time. 

"Instead of just moving on to another corpse-to-be, this thing just latches on and goes along for the ride." She turned to look up at the church. "I'd suggest the Reverend perform an exorcism, but I don't know if it would do any good with this type of spirit and Clayton's already so vulnerable..."

"Then we'll find something else." Miriam's tone brooked no argument. "That boy has suffered enough." She threw a glare at Aloysius. "I won't risk making things worse." 

"All right, then, first thing's first." Arabella rubbed her hands together, a determined gleam in her eye. "I want to get a look at this thing and see exactly what it's done to Mr. Sharpe."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely satisfied with this one, so may go back and tweak it at some point, but I'm anxious to get to the next part, so here goes...

It took a fair amount of coaxing from Arabella - and a thorough pat down from the Sheriff - for Miriam to agree to let Aloysius into the church; she was no longer being outwardly hostile to the man, but she wasn't about to be overly trusting where Clayton's safety was concerned, either.

"I'm keeping my eye on you, Aloysius Fogg," she informed him as they made their way inside. "If you even look at that boy wrong..."

"I'll be picking my head up off the floor. Yes, Ma'am, I know." He smiled wryly. "I wouldn't expect anything else after what I've done."

"Reverend," Arabella called ahead of them, stopping a few feet from the bedroom door. "Aloysius is with us. He's not armed."

"I heard y'all talking. Come on in."

Arabella opened the door, revealing Matthew sitting in the rocking chair, Clayton in his usual spot on the Reverend's lap, head tucked beneath his chin. It would've seemed a completely domestic scene, if not for the gun in Mason's hand, pointed straight at them. It wasn't cocked, yet, but the threat was real nonetheless.

"Afternoon, Reverend," Aloysius said, his voice calm, but worry evident in his eyes when he looked at Clayton.

"Hello, Aloysius," the Reverend greeted. "Please, come closer - not too close, mind, stay just out of arm's length."

Aly complied, moving slowly, hands raised to show he was no threat. Once he stopped, Mason indicated for him to look him in the eye. It was difficult, given the guilt and shame he was feeling, but he reluctantly did as asked.

"Oh, thank you, Jesus," Mason sighed in relief, seeing the eyes of the man he'd started to call a friend and not the cold, dead eyes of the stranger who'd shot the man he loved. He immediately set the gun aside.

At almost the same time, Clayton seemed to register that someone other than Matthew was in the room and looked up toward Aloysius. A smile lit his face and he began to wiggle excitedly in Matthew's arms, one hand reaching out toward the stunned man, before turning back to hide his face in Matthew's shoulder with what could only be described as a giggle.

"Well," Mason began, his voice shaky, once he recovered from the shock that had left him (and the ladies) slack-jawed for nearly a minute. "It appears at least one person here knows the value of forgiveness. Maybe the rest of us should take lessons."

No one commented on the tear that ran down Aly's cheek.

"Unfortunately, we don't have time for that right now," Arabella put in and proceeded to explain to the Reverend what they'd learned from both Aly and the Sheriff. 

As she talked, the Reverend's face got redder by the moment and his grip on Clayton tightened protectively. "I'll exorcise that thing to Kingdom Come and back," he growled when she had finished.

"Yes, an exorcism was my first thought, as well, but I'm worried that it may not work on this type of creature." She held up her hand as he began to argue. "I'm not saying we  _ shouldn't _ do one at all, but I'd like to get an idea of what we're dealing with, first." She looked pointedly at Clayton. "The last thing I want is for something to go wrong and for  _ Clayton _ to pay the price."

Any argument Matthew was about to make died at that last statement. He hugged Clayton to him once more, burying his face in the long locks and breathing in the clean, beloved scent; gradually he began to calm. "So, what do you suggest?"

Arabella smiled, excitedly, and rushed to grab one of her new books. "There's a ritual I can try that grants True Sight - the ability to see beyond what we can with our eyes. It's very similar to what Aloysius described the fog doing for him." She was practically thrumming with nervous excitement, as she continued, "If I can see exactly how this thing is attached to him, we'll know if an exorcism or some other banishing ritual would be best."

"Okay, so when can you perform this ritual, Bella?" Miriam asked her, real hope in her voice for the first time since this whole mess began.

"Tonight. I have everything I need. There's just one thing..." She licked her lips nervously, looking around at the others. "I think we should perform the ritual in the cemetery." 

"What?"

"Why on earth--?"

"You can't be serious."

The responses were pretty much what she figured they'd be, given none of them had fond memories of what they'd discovered there last time.

"That's where we first saw the fog, remember? If those spirits were hanging around there trying to protect the souls of the dead, hopefully they'll be there tonight and maybe they could provide us some extra protection against whatever this thing is, if we need it."

* * *

They arrived at the cemetery shortly before midnight, full moon shining brightly overhead, and were relieved to see familiar swirls of mist guarding the graves.

Matthew was carrying a sleeping Clayton, trying his hardest to not wake the younger man as they walked through the darkness. 

Arabella had stressed the need for the circle and symbols she would be creating to remain unbroken during the ritual - all of which would be surrounding Clayton, who had to remain alone inside them - and had shared her fear that if Clayton were to become agitated without the Reverend at hand, they could have a rather large problem on their hand. She had a bottle of laudanum she'd found in Doc's office, but both Matthew and Miriam were against drugging the younger man if they could help it.

"Just draw your squiggles around both of us and I'll stay with him until you're ready to start," he whispered once they had found an area that suited Arabella's needs. "As long as I stay in eyeshot, it should be fine if he happens to wake up."

Miriam and Aly got to work placing a sleeping mat and some thick blankets on the ground and Matthew placed Clayton on top of them. Clayton began to stir, so Matthew quickly lay beside him and soothed him back to sleep as he watched Arabella begin to draw a large circle around them.

"All right, Reverend, you need to get out now," Arabella whispered about 10 minutes later, as she lifted a bundle of herbs she'd lit, smoke beginning to trail off them. She waited for him to carefully extricate himself from Clayton and gingerly step across the lines in the dirt until he was outside of the ritual area (but close enough to soothe Clayton if necessary), before tracing the path of the circle with the smoke and murmuring words of power.

Eventually, she made her way back to where she began, smudged something below each of her eyes, made a series of motions in the air, as though she were drawing a door, and entered the circle. After some more motions, apparently removing the door she'd just created, she sank to the ground and sat for a few moments in deep meditation. 

As the minutes dragged by, Matthew became more and more concerned about the possibility of Clayton waking. He was so focused on watching the younger man that he didn't immediately notice that the swirls of fog had left their places by the graves and were now surrounding the ritual site.

Not for the first time, he found himself really hoping Arabella knew what she was doing.

* * *

It took Arabella longer to clear her mind than she'd have liked, but eventually she was able to put aside her concern for Clayton and the fear of what she might see and still her thoughts enough to proceed with the ritual. Slowly, she opened her eyes, looking nowhere but at the figure lying before her.

It was a strange sight to behold and it took her mind a moment to work out exactly what it was seeing. Clayton's body was there, but barely visible. Instead, what she could see clearly was a ghostly image of the gunslinger, lying in a fetal position, fast asleep and surrounded by a glowing golden aura.

There was no sign of the blackness Aly had described tearing at the immaterial version of Clayton, but as she looked closer, she could see faint silver lines, like ethereal scars, in several places, which seemed to indicate there had been damage done at some point. 

She turned her attention back to the golden glow; it almost seemed solid, as though Clayton was trapped inside a box or sack made of light. As she peered closer, she noticed that Clayton's form seemed to be giving off a faint silver aura of its own, which seemed to mingle with the golden glow in an area near his heart, creating a pure white strand that traveled out and downward, toward his earthly body.

Arabella's eyes followed the white thread and was able to better see Clayton's true body - and a pair of glowing white eyes, that were definitely not Clayton's, staring up at her from within it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update, but I wanted to get a bit more up in case I'm not able to update next week for some reason, as I'll almost certainly not be updating the following week and I didn't want to potentially leave that last bit hanging all month. :)

" _ Oh, gods, we're too late. _ "

Arabella was vaguely aware that she must've said the words out loud, as three voices called out to her in shock, but she was too busy running things through in her mind to pay them any heed. 

Had they waited too long? Had the church been offering more protection than they'd realized? Had she made an error in the ritual that allowed the creature access to Clayton it hadn't had before? 

The creature within Clayton's body giggled.

Arabella froze, her mind going blank momentarily. That was the same giggle Clayton had given when he saw Aly earlier that day.

Moving closer, once more, she watched as a pure white, ethereal face emerged; it was the face of a child, smiling beatifically at her.

_ 'What the hell? _ '

Almost as if on cue, the words had barely crossed her mind, when the child-creature's eyes grew large with fright and the facial features once more merged with Clayton's.

"Wait!" she called, confused by the reaction. 

Then she felt it: something dark, oppressive and evil was nearby. She stepped back, once more surveying Clayton's spirit form, and this time she spotted a small strand of black, barely more than the width of a human hair, extending from an anchor point she could see into what she could only describe as a void in the miniscule space between spirit and body.

" ** _GIVE HIM BACK!_ ** " a furious voice screeched from the nothingness, before black tendrils began to snake toward Clayton's sleeping spirit. There was a crackle of something like electricity as the tendrils came in contact with the golden bubble surrounding the gunslinger's form and they retracted with a hiss. " ** _HE'S MINE! I'LL HAVE HIM EVENTUALLY!_ ** "

As abruptly as it appeared, the presence vanished, but she could still see that small black tether and she knew that somehow they needed to break it in order to free Clayton from its grasp.

As for whatever had already taken up residence inside him, she was at a loss. It didn't seem malevolent, but how did it get there and what did it want?

With a sigh, she stepped back and turned toward the Reverend, but any words she was going to say died in her throat as she looked at the man. 

The ritual was only supposed to work on things within the circle, not without, but when she looked at Mason, all she could see was a spirit, gray in hue with broken shackles around the wrists and ankles and a golden glow emanating from his heart that matched the protective barrier surrounding Clayton's spirit.

Then she noticed the fog clouds that had previously been protecting the graves and were now surrounding her ritual circle. As she turned her attention to them, the fog faded away and she was left with the sight of pure white, ethereal children staring calmly back at her.

A melodic voice suddenly filled her mind - no, several voices combining into one beautiful harmony.

_ Slain by the most selfish of hates. Reborn from the purest and most selfless of loves. The Protectors are returning. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy exposition, Batman. Arabella is reminding me why I never attempted Sherlock fic. ;)
> 
> Short update, but I hope to have more up either tonight or tomorrow. 
> 
> Very close to the end now.

"So, what you're saying is," Aloysius began, once Arabella finished informing them of what she'd learned, "the Reverend knocked up Mr. Sharpe and their ghost baby is currently wearing Clayton's skin like a coat."

Arabella and Miriam just stared at Aly for a few moments, while Matthew's face turned beet red. 

"I never...We didn't...That's just..." was all he managed to get out, though his mouth kept attempting to form words of denial that simply wouldn't come.

"Reverend, please stop trying to imitate a trout for a moment." Miriam sighed with exasperation and turned to an impishly grinning Aloysius. "And you wipe that smug smile off your face, Aloysius Fogg. This is hardly the time for jokes." Despite her words and attempt at sternness, the corners of her mouth were twitching slightly upward against her will.

"I don't know about you, Ma'am, but after the week I've had, I'll happily take any laughs I can get," Aloysius replied, his smile wavering as the events of the week caught up with him once more.

"Actually, Aly might be onto something..." Arabella mused, a distant look in her eyes as she mulled things over in her head.

"I beg your pardon!" If anything, Mason's face turned even redder and it was everyone's turn to stare at the younger woman.

"Calm down, Reverend. I was just thinking about the healing spell you performed. That...demon...manitou...whatever it is keeps yelling about having 'claimed' Clayton. I figure that means Mr. Sharpe was literally a breath away from death when you healed him. 

"Given how well the spell went you must've really cleaned up with the Dealer. What was your hand? A full house? Straight flush?"

The Reverend thought of the hand and winced, immediately realizing how it would sound. "Does it really matter?"

"It might." Arabella studied him closely. "Reverend? What was the hand?" 

Mason mumbled something too low for any of them to catch.

"Matthew Mason, do you want to help Clayton or not?" Miriam scolded. "Tell Arabella what she wants to know this instant." 

"Hearts royal flush, with a joker, no draws," he repeated, loudly. "I prayed and the Lord delivered." He met their eyes for the first time since Aly started his teasing, daring any of them to refute what he was saying. 

Suddenly, something else occurred to him. "Wasn't paying much attention at the time, but come to think of it, the Dealer seemed mighty pissed. I heard him cursing."

"I bet." Arabella smirked, then rubbed her hands together, practically giddy at the prospect of solving a mystery. "Okay, so Clayton risks his life to avoid taking a friend's, even though said friend is determined to kill him." She shot Aloysius a sympathetic look, before continuing, "I'd say that qualifies as downright selfless.

"Reverend, you poured all your love into a healing spell to save Mr. Sharpe's life and  _ someone _ \- whether the God you preach about on Sundays or someone else, it doesn't really matter - listened, so they must've found your intent to be pure enough to intervene." She was now pacing around the circle she still remained within, practically skipping with excitement.

"So, despite his crass attempt at humor, Aly was actually right: the love you and Clayton both possess - for others and each other - was exactly what was needed for one of these Protector spirits to be reborn." Arabella stopped pacing, a serious look coming over her face. 

"Unfortunately, that little parasite of a manitou latched onto Clayton at the same moment and without consciously realizing it, Reverend, your love wrapped itself like a cocoon around Clayton's spirit to protect him. Then, the newborn spirit took up residence in its - for lack of a better term - parent's body lest the manitou jump in while it was unoccupied."

She stopped to take a breath and looked at her friends, who were all staring at her in bemused awe. "Um. Did you get all that?"

"Yeah," Aly said, grinning. "You said I was right."

Miriam slapped him.


	16. Chapter 16

Matthew watched the others' antics and wished he could join in with Aly's jocularity. Lord knows, he understood the need for levity in situations where one felt out of their depths; it allowed the illusion of control and helped maintain sanity. This, however, wasn't a situation he could take lightly.

Oh, he had no problems with Aly's insinuations about his own proclivities; he'd come to terms with his desires a long time ago and he was confident that, despite some people's chosen interpretations of the Good Book, his God didn't give a rat's ass who or how you loved.

Clayton, however, had no say in the current circumstances and there was no way of knowing how comfortable he would be with such insinuations. Despite everyone else seeming certain his feelings were reciprocated, he would not dare speak for the gunslinger. 

Matthew could only view such assumptions, were he to make them, himself, as a violation of Clayton's trust and God knows the man's body and soul had already been violated enough in the seemingly unending war between light and darkness they found themselves caught up in. Matthew would not, purposely, take more control from him.

If Clayton truly returned his feelings, then Matthew would leave it to him to make those feelings known, if and when he felt comfortable doing so. If it never happened, he'd simply be grateful to have such a wonderful man in his life.

Right now, though, the only thing that mattered to him was getting Clayton back.

"So, how exactly do we get those things out of him?" he asked Arabella.

"Well," Arabella began, thoughtfully, "I suppose you could try performing an exorcism, but I'm afraid if we try to force it out, it might lash out and cause even more damage."

"We'll call that Plan Z then. Any ideas for Plans A through Y?"

"The best case scenario would be to convince it to leave Clayton and find a new body to take over. That's partly why I wanted to do the ritual here." She swept her arm to indicate the cemetery. "Unfortunately, with Wild Bill unavailable and Mayor Farnum the recipient of a Sharpe Special," She ran a finger across her throat. "I'm not sure there's anyone here that would be enough of a temptation. Assuming  _ they _ would even allow it, of course." She indicated the spirits that still surrounded the ritual circle.

"What if you offer me?" They all turned shocked gazes upon Aloysius. "I mean, the things I've done have to be juicier bits for that thing to nibble on than anything Mr. Sharpe has done."

"Aloysius, do you realize what you're volunteering for?" Arabella asked, her voice cracking a bit. "Clayton's soul has healed, but I could still see the scars..."

"But you said it yourself, it only got a hold of him because he was so close to death, right?" Aloysius moved up closer, looking Arabella in the eye. "As long as I'm careful, it could be a long time before this thing could actually get its hooks in. Who knows, maybe it would get tired of waiting in the meantime and find some other poor sucker to latch onto." 

He turned back to face Matthew and Miriam. "It's the least I can do to make up for what I've done.  _ I'm _ the reason Mr. Sharpe is in this mess. If I can also be the solution, maybe I could eventually learn to live with myself again."

"Aly," Matthew began, a lump in his throat. "If anyone's to blame, it's me. I'm the one who talked you into trying that damn spell --"   
  
"No, Reverend," Aly said, his tone brooking no argument. "That spell backfiring wasn't why I couldn't be reasoned with. If the person I used to be hadn't been such a ruthless bastard, I could have simply taken Mr. Sharpe in alive and I'd have come to my senses long before we ever reached Texas." He gave Matthew's shoulder a squeeze. "We can worry about all this later. 

"Right now, let's just concentrate on getting our boy back, okay?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I agreed to work an extra half-shift this evening and had to do something with these extra four hours, so bonus update! 
> 
> I'm afraid it's pretty much just filler, but it still counts as an update. lol
> 
> Now for the bad(ish) news: I do my writing at work, because it's quiet and I don't have to share a computer - and I am now off work until the 25th. 
> 
> I will try my best to get an update done before then if I can get to the library, but I make no promises. Rest assured, though, I am not abandoning this monster.

_ This is stupid. Just turn around and go back. _

Matthew found it easier to ignore the voice in his head than the rising sounds of distress coming from behind him as he resolutely walked away from the ritual area - away from Clayton.

Another ten yards and his steps faltered as wails began to turn to shrieks.

"Dammit, Arabella, if you don't call this off--"   
  
"Reverend!" Aly's voice barely carried over Clayton's cries, despite being closer to the trail and Matthew, himself. "Bella says you can come back --" Matthew had already begun running back and arrived at the other man's side before he could finish his sentence. "now."

"So good of her to decide that before the whole town woke up thinking the Sioux were attacking," Matthew grumbled. In the distance, he could see that Arabella had apparently broken the ritual circle and allowed Miriam to go to Clayton and attempt to soothe him...it...whatever the young spirit inhabiting his body was.

"I hope you got what you needed," he told Arabella, sharply, as he strode past her, picked Clayton up into a firm, but gentle hug and began rocking. "Shh. I'm here now. You're okay. You're okay."

"Actually, I did." She watched for a few moments as the Reverend's soothing did the trick, then began packing up her supplies as she elaborated. "The tether that connects you to Clayton and feeds the protection there seems to stretch and thin as you move further away, but I don't see any indication that it is ever in danger of actually breaking.

"The spirit doesn't know that, though. It just senses the change, panics, and just like any infant, does the only thing it knows to attract the attention of a wandering parent: cry and wail until you return."

"So, how does knowing that help?" Miriam asked, now standing beside the Reverend and gently stroking Clayton's hair.

"It doesn't actually  _ help _ ." Arabella sighed. "It's just another detail I have to factor into the equation while I work on the new ritual. 

"Best case scenario, when the spirit leaves Clayton's body, the protection will automatically drop and Clayton's spirit retakes possession of his body at the same time. Worst case scenario, the protection doesn't drop, the Reverend can't work out how to drop it himself, Clayton's spirit remains in limbo and his body is left vulnerable to other manitou or roaming spirits.

I need to come up with something for the middle ground, so we can cut the cord, as it were, ourselves."

"And you still think you can work this all out in a day?" Matthew asked, skeptically. He had initially balked when Arabella told them she would need time to come up with a new ritual and they'd have to leave tonight without restoring Clayton. 

She assured him it was more a case of adapting existing rituals than reinventing the wheel and they should be good to go tomorrow night, but the thought of them rushing things and Clayton being left vulnerable to other dark forces due to his impatience was unacceptable.

Arabella seemed to understand his trepidation and gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Reverend. Protecting Clayton is the easy part. Aloysius is the one that has to charm a demon."

Miriam glanced at Aloysius, who was in the process of gathering up the bedding they'd laid down for Clayton and said, in a sweet voice just loud enough for him to hear, "Well, as long as it's no pickier than one of Mr. Swearengen's complimentary whores, he should do just fine."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was _supposed_ to be the penultimate chapter, but it turned into four hours of exposition hell, so we may still be looking at two more chapters.
> 
> I've also got some tentative plans for a sequel or two, but we'll see how it goes with finishing this monster first.

By the time they got home and crawled into their respective beds, it was nearly 3 a.m., so when Arabella came knocking at the church door at 6:30, Matthew felt the words he threw her way were more than justified.

He'd apologize to the Lord once he finished the coffee she'd brought - which helped to ensure he wouldn't have a murder to atone for, as well.

"With a welcome like that, how could I not like him?"

Matthew finally turned his attention from the coffee to the two men he hadn't previously noticed standing behind Arabella. 

The man who spoke was nearly as tall as Matthew, with russet, reddish-brown skin, a shaved head and a face etched with smile lines, which were currently on display as he was not bothering to hide his amusement. Matthew recognized the man's clothing as those of a Sioux shaman.

"Sorry to disturb you, Reverend." Sheriff Bullock stood beside the stranger. "I thought my friend here might be able to give some insight into the issue with Mr. Sharpe and I wanted to bring him over before he had to leave town."

"Oh, of course. Come on in." He ushered them all inside. "Please, wait here a moment while I go wake Clayton and get," he glanced down at his nightshirt, "us both presentable for company."

It only took a few minutes to get both of them dressed - thankfully, Clayton (or the spirit inside him) was more of a morning person than he was. He called the others up and then sat in the familiar rocker, Clayton perched happily in his lap.

Arabella led the way, a cup of coffee from the urn she'd brought presented before her as though she were offering up a sacrifice. He took the cup from her, mindful of the man in his lap, and took a drink before setting it on the table next to him. He kept his eyes on the stranger the whole time.

The man stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Clayton, but made no move to come closer. He eventually shifted his gaze up to Matthew's own, showing no surprise at the Reverend's scrutiny.

"So, um," Matthew began, awkwardly. "I don't believe I caught your name."

"That's probably because I didn't set it loose." The man's smile faded to a more serious expression. "Names have power and while I do not believe the manitou the Sheriff told me about is much of a threat, I sense another, more powerful influence clinging to both you and Mrs. Whitlock, here." He seemed to mull something over for a moment. "You can call me Curly."

Matthew's gaze automatically drifted to the man's shaved head.

"It's an inside joke," Curly confided, an impish smile coming across his lips. "I'd let you in on it, but I'm not sure you have the stamina to keep up with me." He winked and Matthew automatically reached for his rosary. 

"Yes. Well, Um. Clayton!" the Reverend stammered, completely thrown off by the man's demeanor. He resolutely ignored Arabella and the Sheriff's poorly hidden snickering.

"Yes, of course." Curly seemed to decide to take pity on him and moved closer, kneeling down and looking Clayton deeply in the eyes. 

He said something in a language Mason couldn't understand, but Clayton immediately clapped his hands happily and bounced a bit on the Reverend's legs, making Matthew wince slightly. Curly said something else and Clayton immediately tapped at his own chest.

"Amazing," the shaman breathed, turning his attention back to Mason. "You and Mr. Sharpe have managed to return one of the Old Ones. The world is going to owe you both a great debt." His smile turned wry again. "I almost feel sorry for that manitou."

He stood abruptly, turning to Arabella. "Come, Mrs. Whitlock, I have some ideas for that ritual of yours."

"Oh, okay." Arabella stammered, shocked at both the sudden acknowledgement and the speed with which the man headed for the door. "I'll be back later, Reverend," she called out quickly, the words practically running together, as she hurried to catch up.

"Have a good day, Reverend, Mr. Sharpe." The Sheriff tipped his hat and rushed to catch up with the others.

Matthew could only sit in stunned silence for a moment, then he bent his head to whisper in Clayton's ear, "I hope  _ you _ understood all of that."

The only answer he received was a soft giggle.

* * *

"So, manitous can't actually be killed, but these Old Ones managed to defeat them and bind them to the place where they came from, so they couldn't cause problems here on Earth anymore, but then some shamen who had a pretty legitimate reason to hate white people, decided to do their own ritual and killed all the Old Ones, setting the manitous free and now we have things like those snakes and Wild Bill running around everywhere." Arabella finally stopped and took what Matthew was sure must've been her first breath since they left town to return to their ritual area.

"So, this Curly keeps calling them 'Old Ones,' but I thought you said they called themselves 'Protectors.'" Aly was clearly having as much trouble keeping up with the woman's ramblings as he was, which made Matthew feel a bit better.

"I doubt it was a name they gave themselves - and that's hardly the most important part of the story, Aloysius!"

"Oh, look. We're here," Miriam said, a bit louder than necessary, clearly trying to head off any repetition of the story before it got started. 

It seemed to work, as Arabella turned her focus to setting up the ritual and giving Aly orders. "Thank you, Jesus," Miriam muttered under her breath and Matthew couldn't hold back a smile.

He followed, shifting Clayton a bit in his arms, as Miriam headed for a small patch of scrub a little ways from the ritual site and began taking some blankets out of the small basket she was carrying.

They had come up early, because Arabella wanted to have as much light as possible for creating some of the more intricate glyphs this ritual would require, as well as working out the additional space that would be necessary. From the way she was measuring things out, it looked like it was a good thing there wasn't much foot traffic on the path up to the cemetery after sunset.

"Okay, you can set him down now, Reverend." Miriam indicated the area where all the blankets overlapped to provide the most padding, before turning back to her makeshift picnic basket and pulling out some of the fried mush Clayton liked to nibble on.

He had no sooner gotten Clayton situated, and started to sit down himself, than Arabella began calling to him. "Reverend! Could you bring - oh, you already set him down." She sounded disappointed for a moment, but then brightened again. "Actually, Reverend, if you could come help for just a minute, I'm trying to work out the size of the containment circle and your extra height would be most welcome."

"You got him?" he asked Miriam, with a sigh. He couldn't help smile, though, at the sight of Clayton snuggling up against the older woman, happily chewing on a piece of his favorite snack.

"Yes, we'll be fine. You're not going to be out of his eyeshot." She made a shooing motion. "Go on, before she sends Aly to drag you over."

By the time Arabella had finished her preparations, the moon had risen, Aly had set up a small campfire, and Clayton had fallen asleep, nestled safely between Matthew and Miriam.

"Okay, here's how it's going to work," Arabella began, tiredly, as she sat down with them on the blankets. "There are a total of four ceremonial circles involved. The first two are very similar to what we did before: a main circle for the ritual itself and an inner containment circle where Clayton will be. Aly, you will stand in the main circle and be ready to break the containment circle if, and only if, the manitou agrees to your deal.

"The third is directly opposite the containment circle, and the fourth, which will not be closed during the opening ritual, is within it. Miriam and I will be in circle three and Reverend, you will be in number four, prepared to close it only if necessary to sever the connection between yourself and Clayton's soul." She took a cup of water that Miriam handed her, drank it down in one go, then continued.

"Miriam, Mason and myself will only be doing the sight portion of the ritual, like I did before. This way, we can monitor what's going on with Clayton, but the manitou will only be paying attention to Aly. According to Curly, manitous like this one cannot possess or interfere with a living person - it's only managed to hold onto Clayton because his soul is not currently able to return to his body - so, Aly will be safe."

She turned her attention to Aly. "Manitous are evil, but they will uphold bargains to the letter. You have to be very careful how you word yours. Do not offer anything that could contradict the options we spoke of earlier." She could see the Reverend and Miriam's confusion at this statement, but held a finger to her lips, nodding toward where Clayton lay.

"Well," Miriam said, as soon as she was sure Arabella had finished talking. "We still have a couple hours before we have to start. Arabella, I know you and the Reverend were up early today, why don't you both lie down with Clayton and get some rest. Aly and I will keep an eye on things and wake you when it's time."

Aloysius raised an eyebrow at the use of his nickname, but didn't dare comment on it for fear Miriam would realize her mistake. Still, it was a sign that things may be looking up for him.

Well, apart from the bit about selling his soul to a demon, anyway.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go. :)

_ So much for things looking up. _ Aly shivered in the cold and glanced forlornly over at the pile of clothes sitting a few feet from where he stood.

"Funny, I don't remember you ever mentioning the word 'skyclad' before." He raised an eyebrow and stared down at Arabella, whose cheeks were pink enough to be seen in the moonlight as she continued to meticulously draw symbols and figures along his flank and hip.

"Well," Arabella's voice cracked and she had to clear her throat. "Curly said these markings would make communing with the manitou easier and might lend more weight to your words."

"Y'know, I've not yet met this Curly fella and I already want to punch him in the face." Aly pitched his voice to a higher register. "'Curly said this' and 'Curly said that' and 'Curly said some other damn thing.'"

"My, Aloysius, if someone didn't know you better, they'd swear you were jealous," Miriam drawled from her spot beside the Reverend, who was currently averting his eyes while holding his hands over Clayton's.

"Ain't jealous. Just don't like having to wait til spring to find my fuckin' balls!"

"I'm sure your three  _ friends _ at the Gem can help you look for them, Aly," Arabella said, primly, before rising and moving to the rest of her supplies. "All right, everyone, take your places. It's time to get started."

"Arabella, are you sure we can't--"

"No blindfold, Reverend. Clayton's a grown man; Aly doesn't have anything he hasn't already seen."

"But the child--"

"_Doesn't care._ He isn't part of this world and hasn't got your personal hangups, Reverend. Let it go." She straightened and looked at Matthew, sympathy in her eyes. "Let _him_ go."

Miriam put her hand on his shoulder. "She's right, Reverend. If this goes as planned, Clayton will be back soon. It's time to say goodbye." She gently moved the Reverend's hands away from Clayton's face, so she could look him in the eye. "Thank you for protecting our boy. We won't forget you." A kiss to his forehead and she quickly rose and made her way to the circle.

Matthew watched her go, then looked down at the man in his arms. He wanted his Clayton back so much it hurt and he had been excited for his return up until this moment. 

This spirit didn't belong here. He knew that.

Clayton couldn't return until it left. He knew that, too.

Why was it so hard to let go? 

He didn't realize he was crying until Clayton's hand came up to his cheek, clumsily swiping at the wetness there, before planting a soft kiss in the tear's place.

Clayton - or rather the spirit - gave him a sweet smile, tapped Clayton's chest, over his heart, then reached out to tap the same spot on Matthew's, before turning to point where Matthew could now see the familiar wisps of fog appearing outside the ritual circle. 

"Okay," Mason conceded, his voice cracking. "I'll know where to find you." He took a deep breath, before rising with Clayton in his arms and heading toward the circle. 

He laid Clayton down on the blanket in the center of the containment circle, ran his hand through his hair, and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Goodbye, little one."

He turned and made his way to his position in the circle, hoping to get the man he loved back tonight, because he didn't think his heart could take another goodbye.

* * *

"Manitou!" Aly called from his place just outside the containment circle where Clayton's body lay, grey eyes fixed on him. "Show yourself! You've wrongfully laid claim to a soul and body that still live! It's time for you to return to the Deadlands!"

" ** _NO!_ ** " The familiar screeching reply seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, making Aly jump slightly. " ** _THE LIFE WAS AT ITS END WHEN I LAID CLAIM! THE THREAD WAS READY TO SNAP WHEN THE SOUL WAS TAKEN AND HIDDEN AWAY! GIVE IT BACK!_ ** "

"The body lives. The heart beats once more. It was healed before the lifethread could break. It is useless to you. Return to the Deadlands until another, better soul is available." He took a deep breath. "Leave this body and you may take me when my life ends."

There was a palpable pause, before a dark shape appeared in the air above Clayton's body, its menacing red eyes glaring at him. " ** _Why should I give up on a soul already claimed to wait for another?_ ** " The voice was calmer now, curiosity and suspicion both evident in every word.

"This soul will fight you. You can try to beat it into submission, but you will never truly be able to claim or tarnish it. It is too pure for one of your kind. It is young and healthy; most of the danger it faced is now in the past, so it may live for many more decades before you have another chance to claim it.

"I am older, slower. I've got a bum leg and a lot of enemies; my time is likely to be counted in months or years rather than decades. I've got more blood on my hands and stains on my soul than his will ever see. Most importantly, I won't fight you.

"You leave him and promise you will never touch him again, body or soul, and I promise you that once I've passed and my body has been placed in the dirt, it will belong to you and my soul will not fight you for it."

The creature continued to stare silently at Aly, clearly trying to gauge the validity of his claims and the sincerity of his promise. " ** _I was getting bored anyway, so I will accept your offer, Mortal, but if you ever try to break our bargain, there will be consequences - for both of you._ ** " It looked around, seemingly only now noticing the circle. " ** _Release me and I will be on my way._ ** "

Aly let out a sigh of relief, even as a shiver went down his spine. "You'll have to excuse me for wanting a bit of insurance. Once I break this line, you'll be able to leave that circle and join me in this larger one. Only when I'm sure you've completely left my friend's body behind will I break the outer circle. Understood?"

If the Manitou could roll its eyes, it clearly would have. " ** _Yes. Yes. Just finish this and let me be on my way._ ** "

Aly turned to give the others a thumbs up, then moved forward to break the first circle.

That's when all hell broke loose.

* * *

It was strange only hearing one side of a conversation. Matthew could feel his heart pounding as Aly laid out the terms of his offer and it seemed to take forever before Aly gave a visible sigh of relief and gave the creature the terms of its release.

Aly gave the thumbs up, as they'd agreed, and Matthew turned his attention fully to Clayton, preparing to cut the tether between them if it were necessary, so he was watching as the spirit seemed to poke its head up from within Clayton's body, attention apparently focused on the manitou as it drifted away from Clayton.

' _ Be patient, little one. Let it leave the circle before you try to escape. _ ' Matthew was so concerned about the little spirit escaping without harm that he was totally unprepared when the spirit suddenly surged forward as the first circle broke, blazing nearly as brightly as the sun and hurling itself at the retreating form of the manitou, at which point several things happened at once:

Matthew was nearly thrown from his feet as some part of himself he didn't realize he was missing seemed to slam into him, as though an elastic band had been pulled taught and suddenly released to recoil on itself.

The battling spirits began to stir up a small maelstrom of dirt and rock that began to pelt the humans caught on their battleground. Matthew brought his arms up to shield his face from the debris, which, while not lethal, stung like a son of a bitch.

Arabella yelled at Aly to break the outer circle. 

And Clayton began screaming.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is it. I tried to give the story enough of a wrap up to not be frustrating, but leave just enough open for the sequel(s) I am hoping to add (already have some things floating around my head, so the first one will hopefully begin soon).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has followed along and left kudos and comments, you've helped me rediscover the joy of writing which I thought I'd lost ages ago. 
> 
> Love to you all.

Clayton felt himself surfacing to consciousness as if from a very deep sleep. His sense slowly began to register his environment and he could feel hard ground beneath him and smell the familiar scent of a campfire.

What had he been thinking? He never allowed himself to sleep heavily when not hidden behind sturdy walls and doors with strong locks and his own makeshift barricades. Doing so outdoors was a good way to wake up dead.

_ Dead... _

The sudden onslaught of memories was overwhelming: the first meeting in Al's office, fighting Wild Bill, Doc turning into some monstrosity from the bowels of hell, Aloysius threatening to kill him. 

The duel.

Something in the darkness with sharp claws and teeth tearing into him.

No sooner had the memory returned than he felt something sharp slice across his cheek and another sharp, sudden pain in his arm, as a roaring howl seemed to envelope the air around him.

_ It's still here. It's going to tear you apart. _

Panic flooded his sense and he was distantly aware of someone screaming as he tried to curl in on himself, only to have another pain, deeper and less sharp than the others, lance through his stomach and he seemed to lose the capability to breathe.

_ Ohgodohgodohgod... _

Suddenly something large and heavy seemed to throw itself on top of him and he tried his hardest to buck it off to no avail. Next, he found his arms and legs pinned to the ground and tears of frustration stung his eyes as he accepted defeat and stopped his struggles, a wordless sob escaping his lips.

"Clay...Shh...You...kay." The voice sounded distant and he could barely make out any words.

What did it matter? He was trapped and he was going to--

"Clayton! Open your eyes, dammit!" The voice rang loudly in the sudden stillness, as he realized the howling sound was gone.

Slowly, he forced his eyes to open, blinking them rapidly to try and clear his vision, and found himself looking up into the alarmed face of Reverend Matthew Mason. As he realized Clayton was looking at him, the other man's furrowed brow smoothed and a relieved smile slowly spread across his face. "You with us?"

"I--" He had to clear his throat, which seemed as dry as the desert and felt as though he'd been gargling rocks. "I think so." His heart still felt as though it was going to break through his chest, but he couldn't help but calm a bit, knowing the Reverend was here protecting him.

Then he turned his head and saw Aloysius standing mere feet away.

* * *

Matthew was moving the instant he heard Clayton begin to scream. It was difficult getting past the melee between them, given that as soon as Aly apparently broke the circle, every other spirit in the vicinity seemed to rush in to the young one's aid. The resulting howl of wind was nearly deafening, and the debris being flung around began to grow in size. 

He pulled his jacket up to protect his face and was dimly aware of Aly running over to where his folded clothes lay. Matthew winced in sympathy, not wanting to imagine how much worse this would feel with nothing covering your most sensitive bits.

As he approached the spot where Clayton lay, he could see him trying to protect himself from the debris assaulting him, a thin line of blood on his cheek. Without thinking, he threw himself on top of the younger man, hoping to help shield him from the onslaught.

What he didn't expect, but probably should've, was for Clayton to try and fight him off. He struggled to keep the gunslinger pinned down, so he couldn't hurt either himself or Matthew and so he didn't immediately notice when the others came and helped to pin Clayton's arms and legs in place.

Tears began falling down Clayton's cheeks and his body went so abruptly limp beneath them that Matthew feared he'd lost consciousness, until he heard a sob so soft he may have missed it if his head weren't so close to Clayton's.

_ 'Shit.' _ He quickly began waving at the others to back off and began trying to whisper meaningless words of comfort to the distressed man, but he could barely hear himself think over the fight still going on behind them.

So, of course, the moment he decided to give in and yell to be heard was the moment the whole area fell silent. He winced and turned to look toward Miriam, who was standing by with a bottle of what he realized was chloroform in one hand and a rag in the other. Alarmed, he met her eyes and shook his head.

"It was just in case he wouldn't calm down," she whispered, then drew his attention back to Clayton, who was attempting to open his eyes. "I won't let him come to more harm, even from himself, Reverend."

Matthew decided they could discuss this some other time and turned his attention solely to Clayton. He was relieved when Clayton responded verbally and his heart did a small flip when he realized his presence was soothing the younger man.

Then Clayton turned his head in exactly the wrong direction and spotted Aly, who was attempting to remain unnoticed a few feet away.

"No," Clayton breathed, the word practically dripping with terror, before he turned his attention back, a look of such utter hurt and betrayal on his face that Matthew was sure his heart must've shattered into a thousand pieces at that moment. "Get away from me!"

* * *

_ 'I should've known.' _ Clayton shoved as hard as he could at Mason's chest. Fortunately, the bigger man wasn't prepared, so despite the rather weak effort, he did stumble backward, allowing Clayton a chance to scramble to his feet and run.

Or at least he would've, but his legs didn't seem to want to hold his weight and he quickly fell back to earth, grunting in pain as his stomach once more objected to his movements.

He remembered why now, of course. Aly had shot him in the stomach. That thought just intensified his need to escape.

"Clayton, honey, you need to calm down. You haven't stood up in a week. You're going to hurt yourself, sugar." He turned panicked stricken eyes to where he now saw Miriam standing, Arabella a bit to her right. "No one's trying to hurt you."

He wanted so badly to believe her, but then he spotted the bottle in her hand. She seemed to realize her mistake at the same time and tried to hide it behind her, but he knew what it was.

No wonder he'd slept so unusually deep. They'd drugged him. It wasn't enough that he'd been shot, now they were what - going to drug him and haul him back to Texas to be hanged?

_ This is what happens when you trust people. What the hell were you thinking? _

Futilely, he tried once more to get to his feet, but again his legs would not cooperate. Finally, with a sob, he began trying to crawl away from the people he'd foolishly begun to think of as friends.

"Dammit." He heard Arabella give a groan of frustration and was peripherally aware of her taking the bottle and a rag from Miriam's hands. "We can't just stand here and let him hurt himself. I'll be the bad guy." She began to advance toward him, a look he may have recognized as apologetic, were he in the proper headspace to understand such things, on her face.

"No." Mason suddenly stood between them, facing her down. "Bella, if you do this, we'll lose him for good." He turned back to Clayton, kneeling down so he wasn't looming over the frightened man. "Clayton, please, look around you. No one has a gun drawn or a rope out. We aren't trying to hurt you, I swear."

"Reverend--"

"Arabella, please, I said--"

"No. Reverend, look."

Clayton wasn't sure what they were looking at, but as soon as Mason turned his attention away, he began once more to try and put some distance between them. He wasn't sure if he was more relieved or wary when the Reverend stood and moved away.

Then he saw something else coming toward him. A small cloud of fog drifting toward him in a way he'd never seen fog move. Before he could even think to cry out in alarm, the cloud enveloped him and memories that were not his own flooded into his mind.

_ Mason bathing and dressing him; rocking him to sleep. _

_ Miriam bringing him food and giving him warm hugs. _

_ Arabella tending to his wounds. _

_ Aly offering himself in exchange for Clayton to the evil thing that had attacked him before. _

_ All of his friends - family - doing their best to protect him. _

_ 'What is this?' _ he thought. Unable to understand where these memories were coming from or what they meant.

** _"This is love."_ ** _ A gentle voice whispered in his mind.  _ ** _"Accept that you deserve it."_ ** _ He felt a soft caress against his cheek and the voice became touched by sadness.  _ ** _"She lied about so many things, but that most of all."_ ** _ Ghostly lips seemed to caress his forehead.  _ ** _"Now, sleep."_ **

* * *

All of Matthew's instincts yelled at him to protect Clayton as the spirit made its way toward the frightened gunslinger, but he forced himself to stand aside and see what happened.

The cloud enveloped Clayton and they could barely see him through the swirls of mist, but he seemed to calm and stop attempting to drag himself away from them almost immediately.

Suddenly, Clayton's whole body seemed to go lax and the fog cloud disappeared within him. He was vaguely aware of the others crying out in surprised alarm even as he shouted, "No! Get out of him!" and started to rush forward.

Clayton's eyelids opened and it was even more disconcerting to see glowing white light filling the space where his eyes usually were.  ** _"Be at peace. I will not be here long."_ ** The voice sounded vaguely like Clayton's, but a sweet bell-like tone overlaid it to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.  ** _"I simply wished to thank you and say my goodbyes, now that I'm able to utilize _ ** _ all  _ ** _of this body's functions."_ **

"You seem so much older than before." Matthew marveled, even as something inside him despaired at the loss of the innocent youth the spirit exhibited before.

** _"Ah. Yes, I'm afraid I was rather impetuous when I decided to attack the manitou."_ ** The spirit sounded a bit embarrassed at the admission.  ** _"It is hard to explain in a way a mortal could understand, but my brothers and I battled the manitou for both moments and eons simultaneously."_ **

It turned its attention to Aly. ** _ "The manitou could not be destroyed, but we managed to wound it seriously enough that it will be many ages before it can even think of leaving the Deadlands. You are free of your bargain."_ **

Its gaze moved to Arabella.  ** _"Your ritual work was very impressive, as was your care for this body. You would make an excellent Shaman."_ ** It gave her an impish smile and a wink, as it continued,  ** _"I'm certain Curly would be happy to help you along the path."_ **

The spirit next turned to Miriam.  ** _"The world was cruel to deprive you of the opportunity to have a child of your own, but you were a wonderful mother to me and Clayton will need you to be one for him, as well, though it will be hard for him to admit it."_ **

Finally, it looked back to Matthew and beckoned him to come closer.  ** _"Once I leave his body, he will sleep for a few hours, but he will return to you."_ ** It assured him, before reaching out in a familiar motion. Matthew smiled and pulled Clayton's body in for a tight hug, placing a kiss on the side of his head.  ** _"Thank you. I will miss you." _ ** Matthew felt the body begin to grow limp and carefully scooped Clayton into his arms as the spirit continued, its voice growing softer as it slowly released its hold on Clayton's body.  ** _"It will be difficult once he awakens. His trust is a fragile thing and love is not something he is used to. Do not give up on him or yourself."_ **

The fog separated from Clayton's body, swirled itself once around each of them, and then whisked itself away toward the graveyard where the other spirits had retaken their posts.

Miriam walked over to him, wiping tears from her eyes, and ran a gentle hand through Clayton's hair. "Let's take our boy home, Reverend."

Matthew gave her a smile, then turned to beckon the other two along.

Their strange little family was back together and he would do everything in his power to see it stayed that way.

_ "Do not give up on him or yourself." _

He couldn't guarantee the latter, but it would be a cold day in hell before he gave up on Clayton Sharpe.

_ Finis _

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, Brian, you left an opening and I've paddled the old river, Denial, too many times not to take advantage of an opportunity when it presents itself.
> 
> A.K.A. He went for the heart, not the brain, so deal those motherfucking cards.


End file.
